Citrus Comfort
by Chloe Veverka
Summary: Hermione and Ron share an orange and some thoughts.


Disclaimer: I do not known anything affiliated with Harry Potter, so please don't sue me. It's not like I have much anyway.

Ooo, and review!

Again, sorry for the spacing if it comes out awkwardly. Still waiting for some help as to what I'm not doing right in the uploading

Author's Note: Relatively speaking, I'd put this somewhere after PoA and before the end of the OotP, though it's AU. An idea that came to me while I took the time to eat an orange.

Citrus Comfort

Once that last sentence had been scrawled, that last concluding thought stated, I did what any tired essayist would do at three-thirty in the morning. I dotted that period with a ferocious jab, dropped my quill, and slumped into my seat. Being that it was, after all, three-thirty in the morning, the common room was void of any other presence besides my own. No one was there to see Hermione Granger, THE Hermione Granger, falter in energy and determination after the completion of a paper that was to be due only a day later. No, it wasn't my finest moment. And of course I did not let myself forget it. For what did I do only seconds after that quill had fallen onto the desk (with a sound as resounding as my grumbling stomach)? I started to cry. Soft, gentle, girly tears. I berated myself when I felt that familiar sting in my eyes. And I berated myself when one of those drops proceeded to fall and land, I kid you not, upon that aggressively-dotted period. It was now a blurry smudge, just like my ink-covered tips fingers, and just like my ego.

"…Bloody twit," I half-mumbled, half-sniffled to myself. How could I have let a ten-scroll essay slip from my memory? I've never waited until the last possible second to get an assignment accomplished. I mean, I'm Hermione Granger! I'm always twenty –thousand steps ahead of the academic game! And yet here I am!

It wasn't my finest moment, no, as I wiped the tears from my face. I was beyond tired and frustrated, and yet I wasn't tired enough to go to bed just yet. After a moment's thought, I flicked my wand in the direction of the staircase, up to my dormitory, and whispered a retrieval spell. Within moments, a small creak was added to the sounds of my sniffling as a door opened. A small bag floated down through the darkness and landed on my desk. Its contents included a bar of chocolate, an orange, and a bottle of butterbeer (nonalcoholic). I picked up the bag and plopped myself down onto the floor in front of the fire. I had started the flames hours ago. Seeing that Crookshanks had long since retired to his pillow next to my bed, the fire's blaze acted as my bright companion. The heat radiated within close proximity and had filled me with enough energy to keep writing. Cold darkness wouldn't have been particularly encouraging.

As I dug my nail into the orange's skin, that citrus scent instantly hit my nose. It's a comfort thing that I have, one that few people know about. Even Harry and Ron weren't privy to it. Although they are closest to me, dearest to me, there are still some sides of myself that I prefer to keep from them. It's bad enough how they treat me sometimes, really. It's not that I consider myself a prude feminist, though some would argue about that. But I do have pride and I am determined enough to be capable of handling the truth, no matter how gruesome it may be. And sometimes, the boys hide things from me, thinking that they're protecting me.

I continue my slow peeling, shifting my body on the rug. I really should have changed into something more comfortable; I was still wearing my uniform, skirt, socks, and blouse. Tie tied tightly. The only surprising thing anyone would have noticed was my hair. Weary of squinting through a bushy entanglement of curls, I had taken (an annoying long) time to straighten my hair out and pull it back into a slick ponytail. If I was in the mood, I would've considered it a nice look, maybe even deserving of compliments. Frankly, I couldn't have cared less.

"Hermione?"

Instinct taught me to freeze my movements and think about reaching for my wand. But I instinctively relaxed after a millisecond. I didn't need to turn my head to know who it was. There was no need to snatch up my wand, which was resting next to my thigh. But I started to care a teeny bit about my appearance, what with that soft-spoken grumble of my name.

"Hermione, it's bloody two o'clock. What in Merlin's beard are you still doing up?"

Staring down in my lap, I continued to slowly peel the orange. "Watch your language. I'm finishing up a paper."

I heard him move across the room. I describe the sound as a zombie's shuffle, complete with a few sleepy moans. Yet his movements stopped right next to me, as though he was waiting for something.

"You can have a seat if you want, Ron," I told him, still refusing to look at him. I didn't want him to see my tears. He plopped down next to me, then thumped into a full-body stretch on the floor, expelling a deep sigh. I continued my slow routine, lavishing in the feeling of juice starting to stick to my finger tips. I waited for him to say something. Instead, he just laid there next to me, breathing softly. Stealing a glance, I took in his form. He had closed his eyes, looking peacefully at sleep. His hands were pillowing his head. He was wearing a pair of tartan pants, in his team's colors no doubt, and a plain T-shirt. Something inside me shuddered at the sight of his bed hair and I was almost horrified to catch myself wanting to run my hand through it.

"Wait." Ron shifted his weight onto one side, facing me. I could tell by the sound in his voice that he was trying to refrain from sounding panicky, in true Ron-form. "What essay?"

"The ten-scroll one."

He sighed a true oh-thank-goodness Ron sigh and I could almost feel him relax as I maintained eye contact with my orange. It was slowly growing more scantily clad and exposed, being ridden of its shell. "Blimey, Hermione, that isn't due for another whole day! Why're you up so late tonight?"

I didn't say anything, only continued to peel. His eyes were watching my fingers, I could feel it. They prickled as though they knew that they were under surveillance. And of course my stomach decided to growl extremely loudly at that moment. I froze in embarrassment. Ron, of course, chuckled.

"Hungry?" he asked.

I puffed my cheeks. "I cut dinner a little short in order to get started sooner on my work." I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. "So what, got a problem with that?"

Ron frowned. I instantly felt a little sorry that my tone had started growing pointed. "Well… yeah, I do. You know, Hermione, you haven't been eating as much lately. Don't think I'm so daft that I wouldn't notice."

My fingers stopped working on their own. _No, keep going_,I mentally scolded them. "Have you?" I inquired.

Ron nodded. I felt him shift again, almost nervously. I had almost made the entire circumference of the orange at this point. Some of the skin was stuck under my thumb nail.

"You know, Hermione… I hope this isn't because of… You know… Some girl mentality."

"_Girl mentality_?" I repeated.

"Yeah, well, you know. Thinking that you're too fat or some rubbish like that…"

That comment startled me and, without thinking, I whirled around to face him.

"Fat? What, you think I'm fat?!" I said loudly.

Ron shushed me, realizing his mistake and went into defensive mode. "No no, I'm saying the complete opposite! If there was anyone that I felt the complete opposite about, it's… Hermione, are you crying?" he asked me so suddenly that I almost missed the complete change in his tone. It had mutated from fear into serious concern.

Realizing my own mistake, I turned away from him, refocusing on the orange. "N-no," I stuttered.

"Hermione."

"Ronald," I mimicked.

"Hermione, look at me."

I sighed. "Why." I hoped that he could hear my agitation and would back off. There were times in the past where I knew that if I sounded annoyed enough, Ron would back down for fear of starting an argument. And other times, he would blow right on through, words flailing…

"Because you're hiding something from me in your eyes."

…and this was going to be one of those times. "Ron…"

"Hermione."

I sighed again. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But…"

"Ron, I said drop it."

"Hermione, it must be important. If it's making you cry. Did… Did someone say something to you? Has Draco been saying…"

"No, Ron, no one's said anything."

"Did someone DO something?"

I remained silent. I prayed in my mind. But there it went. A tear, sister to the one that had finished my essay, started trailing herself down my cheek. Of course, its trail blazed on the cheek closest to Ron. By the time I tried to brush it away, it was too late. Ron had seen it.

"Ron, please don't say anymore, okay? I'm just fine. I'm just… just tired, okay? I forgot all about the essay until late this afternoon and I've spent hours going through it and I'm sleep deprived and hungry and just tired, okay?" The entire time that I'm rambling, I've started wiping away other tears that have decided to fall. The orange now rested in my lap.

"Oh Mione," Ron said under his breath. I turned to face him, surprised that the corner of his mouth was turned into a slight smile. I sniffled.

"What're you smiling at?" I asked a little too indignantly.

"You've got ink on you," he told me, pointing at my cheeks. I felt a blush start to creep across my face.

"Bloody hell," I mutter, looking down at my hands. _Twit_, I thought to myself, _you forgot about the ink on your fingers._ Somehow, my fingertips had been spared of the blackness, but it had found itself all on the sides of my fingers, which now decorated my face.

Ron chuckled. "Watch your language, young lady." He pointed his wand at his own fingers and said a spell with which I was not familiar, much to my shock. Hesitating for only a second, he then touched my face. I could feel that blush blossom. His touch was gentle and traced what must have been the ink marks on my skin. When he was finished, his eyes scanned my cheeks with a soft smile. "There now, much better."

"Where did you learn that?" I asked, stunned. Ron knew a spell that I did not. As simple as it was in nature, I was still very impressed.

He shrugged, trying to play off his own awareness of being the teacher to my student position. "You know me, I always manage to make a mess of things, let alone myself. Learned that as a counteractive measure, I guess."

"That's quite smart, Ron," I complimented.

Ron shrugged. "I do try, sometimes. Though the evidence may be… lacking. Especially when you're around. No one's as brilliant as you are with spells."

It was my turn to shrug off the compliment the best that I could. "You're brilliant at things, too. …Can you teach me?"

Ron grinned. "Sure. But not without payment."

I hoped that he had forgotten about the reason for the spell in the first place. "Of what sort?"

He looked down at my lap and my cheeks must have flared up, hot pink. "A few slices of that will start off well."

Oh. …The orange… Right…

His expression turned a smug corner. "What, what were you thinking?"

_What… Did I say that out loud?_

Ron read my face crystal clear. "You didn't have to, read it easily from your blush." I'd forgotten how eerily Ron can read me sometimes. Not always, mind you, but sometimes he can be so right on. It's something that I have valued about our friendship. As much as we've argued, and as quietly as he may stand in the background, he can be more observant than you expect. He downplays it, though, for some odd reason.

"Anyway, that's part of the deal," he continued.

"And the rest of the deal?"

"You tell me what's gotten you upset. And no, Hermione, we're not going to digress from that. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important to me. I hate to see you upset. And you know you can talk to me about anything that's bothering you."

It was hard to listen to him say such sweet things, let alone to say them with such a look of concern and worry for me and only me, without tearing up again.

"I'll think about it," I told him as I picked the orange up and resumed my slow work. Ron nodded, accepting my answer for the moment. The fire crackled. The flames danced in oranges and reds. Ron and I sat together, the citrus smell growing stronger. He took a link of orange peeling and pulled it apart. With a wrist flick, a square of orange shell flew into the fire. A few sparks exploded from the place where peeling met wood.

"You have to wait," I whispered.

"Wait?" he asked, perplexed.

"Until the end, until I finish it," I told him, a little sparkle in my voice. I knew he was confused, but he seemed intrigued enough to simply nod again. I've noticed it to be a Weasley trend, speaking in nods.

He looked back at the table where my abandoned essay laid.

"Can't believe you wrote all that tonight. Wait, yes I can. You being Hermione and all, not too hard to believe at all."

"Such rubbish. I should've had it written days ago, not the last minute."

"Isn't the point that you've finished it? The time's simply a… a… formality, really," Ron reminded me, faltering in his pursuit to find the appropriate word.

"You mean technicality." I looked up at him. He really was being earnest in cheering me up. No matter that he didn't know what ailed me. I sighed. "There's a chocolate bar in the bag, if you want some."

My token of appreciation to him. The minute I spoke the word "chocolate," the happiness of Ron's stomach had reached his face in the form of an effervescent grin. "Well, only if you don't want all of it," he played off, already in the process of unraveling the folded top of the brown bag. He snapped a piece off of the bar, putting the rest back inside.

Most of the orange was now bare, the fleshy string from the peelings still clinging to the concealing skin. I knew that Ron would wait for me to be ready to speak my mind. He and Harry were different in that way. Harry, having been around the pushy Dursleys for so long, could be pushy when trying to pry my frustrations from me. Perhaps being surrounded by so many inquiring minds for so long, Ron used silent patience to give me a choice to say what I wanted, when I wanted – a choice he didn't always have himself.

"Here's your part," I told him, separating the orange slices. He took a few for himself, leaving the majority for me.

"And the rest of our bargain?" he asked.

Our eyes connected. I ate a slice, chewing slowly.

"Promise you won't tell Harry." I looked at him, sternly.

He shook his head. "You should never have to say those words to me, Hermione. Whatever passes here," he motioned between us, "is always just ours."

I couldn't control the well-known "reprimanding" scowl that I could feel transform my mouth. "Always?"

Ron flinched. "All right. So maybe I've shared a few things that I shouldn't have. It was all in your best interest, really."

"I don't see how telling Harry about a few insignificant dreams I used to have when I was younger is really in my best interest!"

"He was in them, Hermione."

"Ron…"

"Actually, he was the focus of 'em."

"I thought we weren't going to speak on that ever again, Ronald."

"…" Ron's ear had turned pinker.

"Anyways, promise you won't tell Harry," I said again.

"I promise."

"Pinky promise."

"Oh, we are getting serious, aren't we?" Ron teased.

"Yes, I am serious, Ron! Please," I said, extending my pinky.

Ron pretended to think on it. Finally, his pinky found mine and we shook on it.

"So… So, I'm a little disconcerted to be admitting this." I brushed my fingers slowly against each other. The sticky juice had changed the texture of my fingers and I relished in the uneven surface of my fingertips.

"What exactly?"

I held out my sticky hands to him. "This."

He still wasn't following me. "Can you give me a little more to go by?"

I slid the palm of my hand against his palm. I did so slowly, letting him feel my damp skin, letting the flecks of orange skin from my skin transfer onto his.

"Smell," I told him. Looking at me as though I'd gone mental, Ron held his hand to his nose. "Smell good?" I asked. He nodded. "When I was little, I got really sick once. Really, really sick. Pneumonia." Ron looked a little lost. "My sinuses were really congested, it hurt a little to breathe, and I was very weak. My parents were so scared. I almost died." From Ron's facial expression, he instantly realized that what was bothering me wasn't as simple as he thought.

"How long ago was this?" Ron voice asked weakly.

"Within a year before I started at Hogwarts."

Ron gulped.

"I know… Strange to think that we might not have ever met."

"I'd rather not think about that, if it's all the same to you," he said, looking like he was being hit with motion sickness.

"The entire time that I was sick, I was being force-fed because I had no appetite. When I could eventually breathe again, the first thing I smelled was..." I held up the orange piece. "My Grandma had come over to help watch me, and she used to sit nearby. Sometimes, she would peel an orange for me. And all the while, when I couldn't even breathe through my own nose, I'd watch her fingers, transfixed, waiting to smell that familiar smell. To know that with that smell, I was alive and getting better. So one day, the scent hit me so forcefully that I had to blink back tears. Grandma looked over at me and it seemed like she knew exactly what had happened. She came over, placed her sticky fingers on my cheeks, and kissed me with so much joy. A short time afterward, I was on a quick recovery."

"Grandmums are strange creatures, they are. Always seem to know what to do," he admitted.

"Yeah. She passed away not too long ago. But whenever I have this feeling in my stomach, I peel an orange the way that she had done. Reminds me that I am alive."

"If that's all you need, just ask me. I can do to you what my Grandmum does to me," Ron offered, pinching her cheek playfully. I lightly slapped his hand.

"It's not only that, though. It's therapeutic. You can control your speed of peeling, but you can't exactly control the way that the peelings will unravel – it's hard to make perfect, even strips. And it's never a clean job; you'll always get sticky and messy from it. But it tastes so good at the end."

Ron nodded.

"It's my anti-drug in this unpredictable world… When nothing is perfect, few things are clean, everything gets messy and there are no true guarantees." I glanced Ron's way and his attentiveness made me smile. "My pride has always come from my know-it-all ways, yes," I said, taking a big piece of orange skin. "But I was so desperate to be your friend that first year because of that scare. I wanted to live. I wanted to live and learn as much as I could, but I also wanted to have friends with which to share that knowledge."

"Why didn't you mention this sooner?"

"I didn't see the point."

"The point? 'Mione, something scary happened to you."

"Scarier things have happened since then, Ron. I think we three have had more scares to last us an eternity."

"But that was something you had to face by yourself. And so young…"

"And that's my point, Ron! Because tomorrow isn't promised to us."

"Hermione…"

"And I want to learn as much as I can now. Before tomorrow comes."

He didn't say anything. He was letting me vent, as much as he wanted to say something else.

"I don't know if any of… that," I half-heartedly motioned at the essay, "will be of any importance in the grand scheme of things. But it might. And if I can learn something of importance, in preparation of the day when we face You-Know-Who, then I'll feel like I was really using this noggin for good. And-and I like learning, Ron, you know this. I just don't want to miss something that could prove fatal tomorrow. Thinking, with my last breath, "why didn't I read that page more carefully?" I looked up at him, abandoning all hopes of stopping the tears from falling.

"Hermione, you can't memorize every single page from every single book we've ever been assigned. I mean, isn't most of that stuff just fluffy filler words anyways?"

"But that's not the point, Ron."

"No, I understand what you're saying." Ron readjusted his position, placing his back toward the fire so that he could face me. He reached into the bag to find the chocolate again. "And Hermione, you're brilliant. You're more brilliant than probably any witch or warlock before you at our age. Everyone knows it. But sometimes, 'Mione, you push yourself too hard."

Before I could rebuttal, Ron's fingers were stuffing a large piece of chocolate into my mouth. The rascal, having removed me of my ability to speak, continued his speech.

"Yeah, tomorrow isn't promised to us. And yeah, maybe the answer to all of our problems are hidden somewhere out there in a book. But maybe it's not. And I think it'd be stupid to waste what remaining days of happiness we have looking for an answer in a place where it might not exist." I was chewing furiously to clear my mouth of the sweetness so that I could say something. Unsuspectingly, and with his own apprehension, Ron touched my cheek. It was the softest touch I had ever received and my jaw froze.

"Don't rush it. Savor it."

Then he took his last piece of orange, something he had been holding onto for a while, and he pushed it into my mouth.

"Chew."

It was a simple command, gentle. I obliged him and the overwhelming burst of citrus that mingled with the sweetness of the chocolate and a hint of Ron made me close my eyes with shock. I had never had the tastes together simultaneously. It was amazing.

"I can't promise you much. Like you said, nothing's really guaranteed. And I know that tomorrow will only get scarier until we stop You-Know-Who. But what I can promise you is that when you need me, I'll be here for you. If you need some company while writing, even if I only just sit there and try to keep my big clumsy self still and silent, I'll stay up with you. If you ever need dinner because you run off without eating enough, yes I'm bringing that back up… _Accio Hermione take-out_," he suddenly spoke. And from his upstairs dorm room, a larger brown bag floated down to their fireside seating. "If you ever need me to grab some extra food so you won't go hungry, I'm there for you, too."

He grinned as my jaw dropped, searching inside the bag to see a thoughtful package of delicious food.

"And if you ever need an orange, I'll bring you a whole grove." Ron was quiet after that.

As much as I wanted to say something, the words wouldn't come to me. It was one of those rare moments where I was absolutely tongue-tied, what with the remnants of chocolate and orange lingering on my tongue. Ron took my lengthening silence as his cue to leave, a yawn and a stretch prompting me to speak quickly if not at all.

"Thank you."

He grinned, one of his lop-sided ones. "Don't mention it. Especially to Harry. Best that he not know about these moments of ours. He'll think we're both crazy, not arguing all the time."

I smiled, moved. "I swear, he thinks the worse of us sometimes."

"He can't help it. I guess we'll just have to have something to ourselves, though. Not too horrible, is it?"

I shook my head. "Not at all. 'Night, Ron. Sleep well."

"Night, 'Mione."

Somehow, as I watched him walk back towards the stairs, I felt the fatigue and fear leave me. At least, for a brief while. The teardrop period was just a moment of the past, a moment during my solitude. And just like my Grandma, Ron had managed to bring me alive with the simplest of actions. Just by being there.

"By the way, your hair is very pretty."

It was as soft and fleeting as his retreat back to his room. But his compliment lingered in the air, like the smell of orange.


End file.
